


Widowmaker

by matrix3



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-06 04:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17338832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matrix3/pseuds/matrix3
Summary: Taylor takes two bullets to the head and wakes up in a hospital without her memory or Master ability. While she quickly recovers her memory, her power remains MIA. Which could be a problem, as wherever she ended up has superheroes and supervillains, and has had them for far longer than Earth-Bet.





	1. Awakening

I watched the clock high on the opposite wall as the second hand swept smoothly around. Almost seven o'clock, and if the weekday pattern held...

"How are we feeling today, Jane?" Hank asked with a gentle smile as he filled the doorway. He was a Celtic giant, both tall and broad, but somehow managed to be about as intimidating as a giant teddy bear.

It was Tuesday morning, so Hank had been the night shift nurse last night. And the night before, and every weeknight last week. Only one week, I couldn't remember back before that, but it was already soothing in its routine.

"Not bad," I replied with a small smile, then waved my left hand with the I.V. port strapped to it. "Be better if I could get rid of this."

Hank grinned as he checked the few machines still strapped to me. "Soon, Jane. It's barely been a week since you woke up, give it a bit of time." He took a look at my pupils, then prodded at the bandages on my head. "Any headaches?"

"No," I replied with a half shrug. "Just itchy, you know?"

Hank huffed, not quite a laugh. "Two bullets to the head and she's 'itchy'. You are the luckiest girl I've ever met."

My breath caught, and I heard a trill from one of the machines as my heart rate spiked. "Ah, sorry, Jane," he said with a wince. "Any memories coming back?"

"No," I lied, my skin crawling at the phantom of a woman in a suit standing behind me. "Just... instincts, you know? Reactions that I can't explain."

I saw Hank nod in the corner of my eye. He stayed silent as he continued checking my bandages, mostly just minor scrapes after my head and the stump of my right arm. Finally, he tapped at a computer and made a few notes on a whiteboard on the wall. The smell of dry erase marker mingled with existing bouquet of antiseptic cleansers.

"Looking good again today, so we might be able to take out the port later. But for now, I'll have breakfast sent up. Any requests?"

"Ah, I don't suppose pancakes would be possible?"

Hank paused at the door with a smile. "I'll see what I can do."

I returned Hank's smile as the door closed behind him, then let it slide off my face. Despite what I still repeated to the staff, my memories had rapidly returned to me. I'd awakened in this room mid-day Sunday of last week without a clue as to who I was or where I'd been. I'd been assigned the designation Jane with some number for a surname while comatose, but one of the nurses had called me Jane Sunday while testing me that afternoon, and it had stuck.

It was better than Taylor Hebert.

\-----

There was a soft knock on the door. Glancing at the clock, I saw it wasn't even four, a little early for dinner.

"Come in, I'm awake," I called out, putting a bookmark in the history text I'd cajoled off one of the nurses. I had to study if I wanted to make a life for myself on this world without Scion. Plus, World War 2 had been very different here, it was fascinating.

"Hello, Jane," Nikki's cheerful face smiled at me as she opened the door. "We're bringing in a friend for you."

Nikki stepped lightly past my bed and threw back the curtain around the other bed, closer to the small window high in the far wall as two large orderlies wheeled in someone. Nikki and the orderlies quickly transferred their charge up onto the bed, and when the orderlies left I could see a middle aged black man with bandages around his head and left eye. Whatever wasn't mummified was weathered and grim. A face accustomed to frowns.

I knew Nikki was at least old enough to be my mother, if I'd had some African ancestry, but it was hard to tell with her smooth baby face and vibrant energy. She hummed to herself as she darted here and there getting my unconscious neighbor hooked up to monitors and settled into his bed. She was on the far side of his bed, clipping an oximeter to his left index finger, when she noticed my attention.

"Oh, I should introduce you," she said with a grin, "this is your new neighbor, Joe. He likes soap operas, creme brulee, and long walks in the beach," she chuckled, stepping away to fill in some info on the whiteboard opposite the foot of Joe's bed. "You just give me a ring if he wakes up, ok?"

I nodded at her. "Sure thing, Nikki."

"Thanks, Jane." She spent a few more seconds filling in the board, then flashed me a big smile. "I'll be back in about an hour with dinner for you, and to check on you both."

I flicked my fingers in a brief wave as she left. I spent a few minutes assessing my new neighbor and wondering what his story was before dozing off.

\-----

I gasped awake, biting back a scream. Another nightmare, still clawing at me as I looked around the dark room. Ghosts with hollow eyes surrounded my bed as I lay gasping, struggling to anchor myself in the present. My heart gradually eased its brutal tempo. Another flashback. That's all. Just a few fragments of what I had been, what I had made of myself, still hanging on.

I slid out of bed, glad they had finally untethered me after dinner. I made my way to the bathroom on shaky feet, passing the half open door to the hall on my way. I entered, then gave the bathroom door a half-hearted nudge until it almost closed, letting a little of the low light from the hall leak in as I splashed water on my face. Turning the taps off, I let the cool water drip down my neck and chest, breathing deeply as I pushed the last tendrils of memory deep into the shadows of my mind.

A footstep outside the door broke my revery. The light from the hall flickered, and I caught the soft sounds of someone moving carefully. A glance through the gap in the door showed a slender figure moving with slow purpose. I didn't recognize the figure, and no nurse had the time to move so slowly.

The gap in the bathroom door was just wide enough that I could barely slip through without touching it, my bare feet silent on the linoleum. I stuck to the wall, avoiding the wan light from the hall, until I reached my bed. Ducking beneath the elevated head of my bed, I crouched under a shelf that separated my little curtained alcove from Joe's part of the room.

On my knees, I carefully peeked around Joe's curtain, the intruder's head and hands visible above the bed as he cast occasional glances at the hallway. Male, around my own height, and wearing a lab coat, he seemed to be nothing more than a random doctor. He was too cautious, though. Too aware of the hallway, and bells were going off in my head, instincts I'd relied on for years flashing warnings.

I could see his hands doing something with Joe's I.V., checking the bag suspended from a hook attached to the head of the bed. I continued on, passing beneath the head of Joe's bed as easily as my own. I knelt in the deep shadows behind the bed, and I could see jeans and a dark t-shirt beneath the lab coat. Definitely not hospital protocol.

He pulled a syringe from his right coat pocket, popping the cap off with a thumb and drawing the plunger with his left hand, filling the syringe with air as he glanced over his shoulder at the door.

My pain and wooziness, the remnants of my nightmare, everything outside of this moment fell away as I slid up and inside his guard, my left hand wrapped around his right, and I drove the needle across his body at his own neck just below the ear.

It almost worked, the combination of momentum and surprise brought the needle within inches of the skin beneath his jaw before he pushed back. Nothing fancy, he relied on simple brute strength to overpower me.

As I expected.

I was a teenaged amputee with two holes in her head, there was no way I'd out muscle a grown man. Plus, anyone attempting an assassination inside a hospital will have some sort of training or experience in hurting and killing others. Taken together, I expected to be out massed and out muscled. So I used leverage and training.

His push met no resistance as I pivoted back and away from the bed, using my solid grip to twist his fist around just so, locking his arm painfully straight in the process. It wasn't easy with just one arm, but I managed to keep control of his hand and arm as I guided him down and around. Once he was flat on the floor, I stepped around his arm, using my hip to press against his elbow. He made a move as I stepped over his prone form, but a slight twist and a little lean applied a touch more pressure on his wrist, elbow, and shoulder. He writhed briefly, choking back an unmanly scream.

Hank was there in seconds. He burst through the door, hitting the lights, then froze by the foot of my bed at the sight of me standing over a man in an armbar.

"What..."

"Hank," I said when he just trailed off, "Could you call security and then sit on this guy for me? I think I pulled some stitches."

Hank nodded and dashed out the door for a moment, returning almost immediately. Slipping around the foot of Joe's bed, he took the man's arm from me and folded it into a basic submission hold as he knelt on the man's back. The man hardly twitched, seemingly resigned to his fate.

I didn't trust it.

Hank looked up as I leaned against the wall beneath the tiny window. "Jane, go rest in your bed. I'll check your stitches as soon as security gets here."

I watched him sweat for a moment before replying. "Pretty quiet tonight, Hank."

"What?" His eyes flicked up to me again, then back to the attempted assassin. His bright copper hair was growing dark with sweat. I'd seen him working, carrying patients twice my size, and he hadn't gotten this worked up. "I suppose. Back to your bed, now, and it can get back to quiet."

"Since it's so quiet, Karla can look at my stitches. I'll just head out --"

"No," he yelped, then huffed a laugh, "you shouldn't be walking. Just wait on your bed. Please." His face was flushed, his breathing labored.

I cocked my head, only half my attention in the room. "Instincts are weird, Hank. Even if I don't remember --" I stopped at the soft chime of the elevator, but there were no raised voices, no hurried footsteps. They weren't security. I sighed. "Is Karla ok, at least?"

"Wh-what do you," Hank stuttered at the mention of the floor's other night shift nurse, then the words faded as he glanced out the door. He was frowning when he looked at me again. Tears mixed with the sweat on his cheeks. "Food poisoning. Her replacement was delayed by car trouble."

The assassin bucked, sending Hank into the heavy chair to his right. Twisting, he tried to sweep my legs, but I was already in the air.

As he spun one direction in an attempt to sweep me, I was traveling the other direction. My heel connected with his temple, my entire weight driving his head against his body's momentum. My foot slipped as his neck gave way with a crack, and I crashed to the floor.

I rolled to my feet and strode to the door. There wasn't a lock, so I grabbed the T.V. remote. It was a wedge, quite a bit thinner at the front than the back where the batteries were stored, and made a reasonable door stop when I jammed it into the gap beneath the door. I gave it a kick for good measure, then went back to riffle through the assassin's pockets, hoping for a gun. No such luck, but I found a nicely weighted knife in a sheath in the small of his back. Hank didn't move from his crouch by the chair as I drew the knife.

"Hank," I said quietly as I stood. "I don't know how long this guy's buddies will be, but you'll probably want to be on the other side of that chair when they come through the door." I didn't wait for a response, moving across the room and hitting the lights as I ducked into the bathroom, the blade loose and comfortable in my grip. I heard Hank moving around as I mostly closed the bathroom door.

Someone quietly tried the door, but the doorstop held. A moment later, there was a crash and two beefy guys in suits burst in with pistols up. The first, a fireplug of a guy shorter than me but three times as wide, took a step further into the room, while his tall friend darted immediately to check behind the door.

Fireplug had good reflexes. He caught sight of me as I slipped out of the bathroom, his head already turning left as I punched the knife into the side of his neck. I ripped the knife sideways as I moved by, tearing out the front of his throat, then slammed the knife into the back of his friend's neck, just below the skull. A quick twist and I released the handle as the thug went boneless. I crouched, snatching the pistol from dead fingers, pivoted to scan the hall outside, then spun back to check on Fireplug.

He was flat on the floor, grasping weakly at his ruined throat as his mouth gaped for air, but the arterial flow had already slowed to a trickle. Whatever blood hadn't filled his lungs fed a growing pool on the floor, creeping toward his forgotten pistol. I kicked the gun toward Joe's bed as I skirted the pool. Laying my pistol on the bed between my hip and Joe's wrist, I gave him a quick once over. I didn't see any damage, and the machines were quiet.

The check up was interrupted by a soft thump, maybe a door closing somewhere on the floor.


	2. Awakening

I grabbed the pistol and slowly crouched behind my bed. A few footsteps approached the room, and then a pause.

"Shit," a male voice whispered, "look at all that blood."

"Close in knife work," a deeper baritone replied quietly, "The report said the director was incapacitated. Not likely he'd be up for this."

There were a few seconds of silence, then the baritone spoke in a brisk tone. "Hey in there, we are Federal Agents."

"Hey in there?" the tenor whispered. "Really?"

His friend didn't respond, just continued to talk into the room. "We're here for our associate. He was admitted under the name 'Joe' earlier today. We were told he was in bad shape, and we'd like to take him to a better, and more secure, facility."

I glanced under Joe's bed. I could still see Hank on the floor behind the chair. He had been sweating before, stressed over working with the assassin cooling on the floor between us, but now seemed relieved. These guys probably weren't with him.

I set the pistol on my bed, then flipped on the reading lamp clamped by the head of my bed and aimed it at the door.

"Slow movements," I said as I picked up the pistol again, settling with my arm across my mattress and my head mostly behind the lamp. It would shine in their eyes, letting me hide in its glare while giving me a clear shot. "Let me see your hands, and any ID or badges."

A middle aged guy stepped in, thinning gold hair, with the softening but still solid body of a former top athlete trying to stay fit. The softness wasn't helped by the armored vest I could see under his thick sweater. His right hand was raised and open, while his left hand held his ID out. It seemed official at first glance. He stepped around the scarlet puddle, and started walking towards me.

"Hold it," I said sharply, and he halted immediately. I guess the bodies on the floor had made an impression. "Kneel right there, please, and keep your hands up while your friend comes in slowly behind you. Same conditions: hands open and up, and let me see your ID."

His eyebrows jumped and he glanced at the floor. "Don't worry, you're past the blood. You won't get your khakis dirty."

He knelt down slowly, and I kept him covered while his partner stepped around the door jamb. Younger than Ugly Sweater, maybe mid-20's, with piercing blue eyes in a tanned face. He was wearing a standard bulletproof vest over a shirt with short sleeves that strained to contain his shoulders. He held his ID out to me with his right hand, his left hand high and open, as he stepped around the puddle without breaking eye contact and stopped behind his partner.

I took a good look at their IDs, tracking their hands in my peripheral vision. "Shield? I don't remember an agency by that name." I shrugged, continuing, "But then, there's quite a bit I don't remember."

I sighed, "The question is whether I can let you take Joe."

A parched rasp behind me interrupted my thoughts. "They're with me."

Both guys jumped, but stilled at a twitch from my pistol. "You know these guys... 'Joe'?"

"Yes." He cleared his throat. "An interesting situation to wake up to here."

"Better than not waking up. I'm, uh, Jane," I said, stumbling over my alias, "and there are a few rowdy guests on the floor. You sure you're good with these guys?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Please put down the gun."

I weighed the options for a moment. The guys I killed weren't cops, not with trying to kill an unconscious hospital patient in the middle of the night, but that didn't mean these were the good guys. They could just be a rival organization. But I couldn't just sit here forever. The guys on the floor had friends, who would probably show up pretty soon.

"Ok," I said, aiming my pistol away before clicking on the safety and placing it on the mattress.

Ugly Sweater stood and slid aside while Muscles dropped his left hand to his holster and nearly barked at me, "Show us your other hand."

"That," I chuckled, "will be difficult." I nudged the reading light aside as I eased my way up, holding the bandage wrapped remnants of my right arm out to the side.

"Holy shit," Muscles murmured, then continued in a stronger voice, "She's only got one arm, Dugan!"

Ugly Sweater started laughing. "And bandages over half her body. I told you before, Clint, sometimes you can't trust your eyes in our line of work."

I held my position until Muscles -- Clint -- relaxed, then slowly let my arm fall to my side. I turned to find Joe sitting up in his bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Ten fingers, ten toes, and I can wiggle them all. I'll live." Joe plucked the needle from his arm with a grimace, turning and sliding his legs off the bed. "Give me a hand, Dugan. It'll be slow going, but I think you two dragging my sorry ass as I limp along will be better than dealing with a wheelchair."

Dugan slid under Joe's right arm, helping him off the bed and over towards the door. Clint took Joe's left arm, then paused. Joe turned a bit, looking at me with his good eye. "You coming?"

I blinked the question. I hadn't even considered going with them. But, there wasn't anything here for me. I'd have to explain the bodies, and Hank. And then... what? Would the government or some charity find a halfway house for me? I was an amnesiac amputee in a world I didn't know. Whether cops or criminals, these three seemed like reasonable guys. All in all, rather familiar territory.

"Yeah." I held the pistol over my pocket as I popped the magazine, then dropped it on the mattress and plucked the other pistol from the floor. "Let's go."

I followed the guys down the hall and onto the elevator. Dugan did something with the panel, then we were heading up. I shot him a look. "What?" he replied with a grin. "You want to head down and hail a cab?"

I shrugged and waited while we headed up a dozen floors, finally pressing myself against the wall as the door slid open. Darting my head out, I saw an empty hall heading away to the left and right with closed office doors. I stepped out and stood ready while the guys made their way out together. Clint nodded to his left. "That way, last door on the left. Roof access."

I nodded at him, keeping my eyes open as I led the way. I could feel my energy ebbing as my adrenaline faded. I couldn't crash yet, though. The goons' friends could be around, especially since they managed to arrange things with Hank and Karla. "Who were those guys, anyway?"

Clint and Dugan exchanged a look, but Joe answered me. "They're called Hydra. They have a lot of friends." He took a few breaths, frowning. From the lines on his face, he frowned quite a bit. He looked like he was about to ask me something, but he just shook his head. "Check the door," he said instead, "it should be unlocked."

I glanced around, then lengthened my stride. The hall took a right turn at the door, and a quick check as I approached showed another empty hall and offices with closed doors. The handle was on the right hand side of the door, which was a little awkward for me. I tucked the pistol under my stump and was turning the door handle when I heard it. A small rush of air as someone inhaled, and a metallic scrape. A man behind the door, pulling a trigger.

I didn't have my bugs around to map out my surroundings, yet somehow I was still hearing everything, feeling everything around me. It hadn't really registered back in my room, the entire floor was so quiet that it simply made sense that I could hear the soft sounds I did. Up here, two men were shuffling around half carrying a third and muffled machine noise rumbled through the door before me, yet I still heard breathing and the grind of a trigger. This wasn't normal, but I didn't have time to focus on it right now.

I threw my chest against the wall to my right, still turning the handle as a line of fire flashed across my back. The door unlatched and I pushed, leaping back to cover on left side of the door as it swung half open. A trio of bullets smacked against the concrete floor behind the door as I glimpsed a double flight of stairs heading up and a half visible door tucked under the steps.

The shooter was tucked in the left corner where I couldn't see without sticking my head out. I glanced over as Joe and the guys leaned against the wall to my right. I left the pistol tucked under my arm and reached into my gown pocket as I turned to Clint next to me. "Grenade?"

He shook his head. I shrugged and pulled the spare magazine from my pocket. I thumbed a round off the top, letting it chime loudly on the floor beside me. A count of two, then I sent it spinning end over end at the stairs. I drew the pistol from my armpit as the magazine rebounded off a step, heading toward the left corner, and I rounded the door jamb with my pistol up. A figure in dark armored clothing was in mid-leap away from the mock grenade. Armored pants and jacket, a helmet, even a protective mask and a neck guard of some sort. Impressive coverage, but as he tucked into a rolling landing I fired.

The man tumbled loosely across the floor as Clint stepped around me. His pistol tracked over every inch of the room as he checked for threats, then he approached the crimson puddle spreading from the fallen thug. I stepped into the room, Joe and Dugan close behind me. Clint glanced at me as I started up the stairs, then ducked back under Joe's left arm to carry him up two flights of stairs.

"Sir," I heard him whisper, "that round went in the back of the head, through a gap between the helmet and the neck guard."

Joe hummed in reply, saving his breath.

"That's only possible if he was tucking into a roll, while he was moving, in uncertain light..." I opened a fire door at the top of the stairs as Clint trailed off.

Clint said something more, but I was distracted. There was a... vehicle on the roof. It could have been one of Dragon's designs, with gently curved wings, a sharp, proud beak of a nose, matte black finish, powerful thrusters at the rear and fan blades set into the wings. Add a paint job heavy on the scales, and I could be back on top of the PRT building after escaping the cell.

Which scared the hell out of me.

I hadn't heard of anything relating to Scion. I had read about "mutants" and other people with more than human abilities, but nothing like back home. This shouldn't be here.

Something was squeezing my chest, making it difficult to breathe, when a hand landed on my shoulder. I flinched and spun, only to find Joe's worn face looking at me. "C'mon, let's get a seat and rest."

I looked back at the plane as the rear split open, a ramp dropping as it yawned wide. That was... different. I caught other differences, it wasn't so similar to Dragon's plane, really. Clint went jogging past us toward the cockpit and Joe gave my shoulder a squeeze before he and Dugan hobbled up the ramp.

Dugan and Joe were already strapped into two of the six jump seats when I made my way aboard. I took the seat directly across from Joe as the ramp closed with a rumble.

"We have quite a conversation ahead," I warned him, connecting the five point harness. He waited until I finished and looked up, then nodded.

"I suspect so, Jane. I am looking forward to it."


	3. Awakening

I dozed off on the flight, then endured fussing by medical staff at an underground base that would make Coil blush with envy. All my bandages were removed and redressed, two energy bars were crammed down my throat, then I drained two bottles of water.

The bottles of water were a compromise. They tried to hook me up to a bag of saline while they ran some tests, but I nixed that right away. Intellectually, I knew that I was already at their mercy, that they could gas me or lock me in a room if they wanted and there was little I could do about it, and letting them inject something wouldn't change that. But I couldn't do it. It didn’t help that we were in a base that reminded me of Coil and his underground base, and what he did to Dinah there.

Somewhere in the discussion of water versus IV I got some real clothing to wear. Then, finally, a young soldier so new he squeaked showed me to a small room with a twin bed. I barely noticed an adjoining toilet and sink combo before I passed out.

I woke up to a tapping on the door. A clock on the wall showed 16:42 in pale red digits. Every muscle complained as I moved, but I eventually managed to stand. As I shuffled to the door, wincing at the sounds produced by rolling my neck, I realized the tapping had not repeated. My visitor was either unusually patient, or could tell I was in motion. The tiny room was Spartan, but complete, reminding me of officer's quarters on a submarine I toured as a child. That didn't leave much room for monitoring equipment, but there could be some Tinkertech. Or maybe someone with enhanced senses.

I opened the door to find Muscles... er, Clint, on the other side. No armored vest at the moment, but his fresh, bright blue t-shirt was as deliciously tight around his shoulders as the one at the hospital.

"Hello, Jane," he said after a moment, "How do you feel?"

I blinked a bit more sleep out of my eyes. "Not too bad, all things considered. Could use a bite to eat."

"I'd imagine," he replied with a nod, then took a step back and motioned to his right. "We can pick up some grub this way, then Director Fury hoped you might feel up for a chat."

I took a few steps down the hall, leaving the door unlocked behind me. "Who's Director Fury?"

Clint was still standing at the door. "Uh, do you want some slippers or something?"

I looked back at him, then down at my feet. "Are we going outside?" I asked as I wiggled my toes against the slightly pliant surface of the floor. It seemed to be linoleum, although considering the super futuristic plane last night, it may well be some space age, Tinkertech miracle flooring.

"Uh, no, I guess not," he replied after a moment, then took a few steps past me. "The food is this way, then we'll head to the Director's office."

Clint led me down a hall, through some sort of lounge area, and up a stairwell. Another short hallway and we arrived at a cafeteria. We arrived in a lull, only a few other people already eating, but there was decent food ready and waiting in a buffet setup. I grabbed a tray and helped myself to a double helping of pasta with meat sauce, a large scoop of mixed vegetables, and a bowl of berries and yogurt. Clint only grabbed a bottle of water before finding an empty table.

Clint looked around the room as I attacked my pasta. In fact, he looked just about everywhere except at me while tapping out a rhythm on the table.

"Go ahead," I said about halfway through my pasta. He just raised his eyebrows. "You've been sitting there fidgeting this whole time. Go ahead and ask your questions."

"Oh," Clint said with another glance around the nearly empty room. "I'll wait until the Director. I don't want you answering the same questions twice. And, sorry about the fidgeting." He finished with a shrug.

I returned the shrug and kept eating my pasta. It quickly vanished, the veggies and berries following soon after, then I grabbed Clint's unopened water bottle and drained it. He didn't complain.

"Let's go talk with the Director," I declared as I stood.

Clint nodded and led the way down another hallway to an elevator. A brief descent, a few more hallways, and we arrived at an unmarked door. It was wider than a normal door, and simply standing here I could somehow feel how heavy it was. Clint knocked politely, then stood for a moment until a heavy thunk sounded that I felt in my chest. He pushed the door open and held it for me. I stepped through into a large, if surprisingly mundane, office. There was a small table to my left with an industrial coffee maker and mugs, while straight ahead were two chairs and then a large, utilitarian desk. High on the opposite wall was a massive, apparently antique map of the world. Below the map, resting in a large, cushioned office chair, was Joe. There was a thick bandage wrapped around his head like a headband and he was sporting a patch over his left eye, but otherwise seemed fit and his right eye was sharp.

"Director Fury, I presume?"

His lips twitched, I'd swear to it, when he nodded to me as Clint closed the door.

"Hello again, Jane. We never were properly introduced. My name is Nick Fury, and I am the Director of SHIELD. How are you?"

“I've got five fingers and ten toes, and I can wiggled them all. I'll live, though I could use a hand," I finished with flap of my loose right sleeve.

Fury didn't react, though I heard a snort from Clint. "You displayed certain unique skills at the hospital. Can you tell me where you acquired those skills?"

"No, Director, I can't," I said with a shake of my head. And it was the truth.

I didn't know how I could track the smallest sounds, or where the easy coordination and marksmanship came from. Maybe a remnant of my multitasking granted me extraordinary body control, or some fractured echo of my insect based prioperception let me map and track my environment. But I wasn't about to theorize out loud.

He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "I believe you. This isn't the first time we've encountered amnesiacs with unusual abilities.”

He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his desk. “You're an enigma, Jane. Dental, fingerprints, DNA, all draw a blank in every national -- or international -- system we can access."

He picked up a large manila envelope, weighing it in his hand. He gazed at it for a moment before spearing me with his good eye. "This," he said, brandishing the envelope at me, "could be a parting gift, Jane. A token of appreciation for your help last night. You take this and we’d blindfold you and drop you off... wherever."

A flick of his wrist and the envelope sailed across his desk to land solidly on the thick oak of the desktop. I picked it up and secured it under my stump before untucking the flap at one end. A quick look inside showed a passport, a slim wallet holding a few cards, and a thick folder full of more documentation, presumably birth and tax records and the like. Oh, and four thick stacks of gently used twenty dollar bills. A whole new life, all wrapped up and ready to go.

I dropped into one of the seats, removing the passport and dropping the envelope between my hip and the armrest. A U.S. passport, with a photo of me I don't remember them taking, and all the holograms I'd expect from an official passport. I took a deep breath and looked up to find Nick watching me.

"Or?" I said, matching his one piercing eye with my two. "This could be a parting gift, _or_..."

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "Or... it could be a signing bonus. You join SHIELD, go through assessment, orientation, any training I think you need, and you work for me. I'm putting a team together."

A normal life was tempting -- my heart ached at the possibility -- but last night proved it was only a dream. I saw a potentially dangerous situation, and I ran headlong into that danger. I glanced down at my new name.

"A signing bonus, huh?" I sighed, "Guess I should practice signing 'Natasha'."


	4. Instruction

Clint found me in the library. I'd been spending quite a bit of time here, trying to catch up on all the innumerable little differences in this world's history. At the moment, I was in the middle of a section on this "Red Skull" person, some sort of a Nazi Tinker or Thinker who had formed his own little Toybox of other Nazi Tinkers during the second World War.

"Hi, Clint," I said as he approached. I looked up from my book to find a rather conflicted expression on his face. There was a little bit of anticipation, but also nervousness, almost dread. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's _wrong_ ," he said, drawing out the second word. "But, there's a new close quarters combat instructor that the Director wants you to meet."

"I thought all that was done," I said with a sigh. I held up the book I'd been reading. "I have so much to learn, my whole memory to fill back up. Can't I concentrate?"

"I know," he said quickly, raising his hands in surrender. "You've gone through, what, three instructors now?"

"Four," I looked at the ceiling, stretching out above my head as I corrected him, "There was a guy from Parris Island while you were on assignment."

"Four," his voice was flat. He shook his head. "Anyway, this is someone a little different. You might like her, actually."

"Her?" Now that was interesting. I started gathering my books and several pages of notes. "Now you have my attention. Let me get this put away, then lead on."

Instead of heading for one of the training rooms like I expected, Clint led me down though the motor pool and into an empty storage room. Most of the floor had been covered in blue cushioned mats, forming a square about fifteen feet on a side with about five feet of concrete separating it from the walls that I had been told were painted Air Force Academy blue. It was apparently a very important color. Two people were standing on the mats waiting for us, a tall, one eyed black man who I recognized and an Asian woman with a short ponytail who I didn't.

"Director Fury," I said with a nod as he turned towards me.

As if using an empty store room wasn't enough of a clue that this was an unusual situation, his presence told me something big was going on here. The Director hadn't bothered attending my encounters with previous instructors. In fact, I hadn't seen him at all since I had accepted his offer three weeks ago.

My gaze shifted to the other figure, presumably my instructor. A closer look made me think she was Chinese, tall at maybe two inches shorter than me, and was already performing her own assessment of me. Whether driven by my power or simply experience, my eyes caught on her attentive posture, the placement of calluses on her hands, and a dozen other indicators that screamed danger to my instincts.

We stood there observing each other for a while, long enough that Clint started fidgeting, shifting his weight slightly from foot to foot. Fury, on the other hand, hadn't so much as twitched since I'd entered the room.

"She's missing an arm," the woman finally said, her eyes still dissecting me.

Fury finally moved, arching an eyebrow as he turned slightly to glance at her. Turning back to me, he bent slightly at the waist, examining me closely.

"Why, so she is," he said with apparent surprise. He tilted his head towards the woman as he continued, "If that troubles you, perhaps she'd agree to bind her other arm before sparring with you."

Her lips twisted slightly, and I caught a slight wince, although I doubted Fury caught any waver in her poise, much less Clint.

"No, Director," she replied evenly, "this will be fine."

"Very well," he said before turning back me. "Natasha, we've had some difficulty finding instructors, so I am trying something different."

Fury stepped off the mats, hands behind his back as he addressed the room at large. "Agent May is a field agent. One of my best field agents, in fact. It would be ridiculous to limit someone of her talents to a classroom. Thus, we are not in a classroom."

"This," said Fury as he turned to gesture at the air, "is an audition. Spar with May. Afterwards, we will see where we are."

I nodded, kicking off my shoes and shedding my socks and uniform jacket. I watched May as she did the same, also divesting herself of a pistol and two knives in the process.

A woman after my own heart.

My PRT training had returned with startling clarity when I started sparring. My lessons with PRT troopers, times I'd been able to train with Grace, and even the videos I'd studied of Crane the Harmonious and her former students in action. I didn't know the formal names of many maneuvers, but I found I could perform them with just a bit of practice. Which meant I swiftly outpaced the instructors they'd assigned me.

May stepped to the center of the mats and I joined her there while Fury and Clint retreated to stand by the closed door. I followed May's cue, bowing to her before pulling back into a ready stance.

And then I nearly lost to her first strike.

The other instructors had tells, no matter how good their form. Whether a tensing of the muscles, a hitch in their breath, tightening of the eyes, or any of dozens of little things, I could detect the thought, the intention, before they committed to the attack.

Not this time. Not with her. There was no lag, no warning, just her right fist halfway to my solar plexus and still accelerating.

I slid left and low, enough to take it on my right shoulder, and threw an exploratory jab up into her right armpit. She twisted, and my knuckles brushed her shirt.

She pulled her arm back as she turned, and her right elbow crashed into my head.

I barely managed to take the impact on the top of my head instead of my ear, but my form was terrible. Something popped in my neck as I fell to the mat, trying to move with the energy of the elbow strike. I turned the fall into a backwards roll and popped up to my feet.

Her bare foot took me in the chest. A tumble and I was back on the mat. I tapped out, chest heaving to get enough air through bruised ribs. Only bruised, though. She was holding back. With her form, a full power kick could have let my sternum kiss my spine.

A few gasps later, May's left hand appeared above me. I took a few more breaths before accepting her invitation and letting her help me up.

We locked eyes as I stood, assessing each other. Her hand was rough, with hard calluses on her knuckles and the side of her hand. I could sense through my grip around the base of her hand that she had badly dislocated her thumb at least once.

She released her grip with a deep nod, almost a bow. She returned to the center of the mat, then looked at me with a half smile. "Good form. Best two out of three?"


End file.
